


Catch Me

by Lucy_Ferrier



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Comforting Crowley (Good Omens), Cuddles, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:55:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21738691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucy_Ferrier/pseuds/Lucy_Ferrier
Summary: An indeterminant amount of time since Armaggedon-that-wasn't, Aziraphale starts to process everything he's lost and finds himself in a teary downward spiral. Crowley shows up to comfort him
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 63
Kudos: 465





	Catch Me

There’s only so much escapism that books and stories and fiction can provide before something has to give.

There is only so much protection in armour built of velvet and cotton and silk can give before something starts to crack.

There is only so much one can _smile,_ softly laugh at your own expense, tell them _oh yes, my bad, I’ll do better next time_ after giving everything you could and realising it _just isn’t enough._

The routine of Heaven made it normal. Routine made it bearable, _easy_ even, because he’d expected it, always known it was coming in some way, shape or form, that hidden but expected _slap_ in the face, and Aziraphale isn’t quite sure what to do with himself now that it’s _gone_ and he’ll never have to see them again _._

He sits neatly at his desk, book open, but he isn’t reading. The pages collect dust where they remain open on the same page as yesterday, last week, seconds and eons ago, Aziraphale staring out the window, eyes unseeing, and mind _almost_ blank but for the Archangel’s voices sniping every little insult and snide remark they ever said, every little doubt in him and his abilities, every little _insinuation_ that maybe he can’t do this or that _but it’s okay Aziraphale, we’ll understand when you fail._ Understanding indeed.

His phone has rung twice today but he hasn’t heard it. Customers knock on the door like clockwork, wave emphatically through the window, but he doesn’t see them. His hands tremble ever so slightly, yet his breathing is slow and even, with the repetitive focus of someone concentrating very carefully on manually _keeping_ it slow and even.

Very slowly, Aziraphale draws his knees up against his chest, heels resting against the edge of the seat, arms wrapped tightly around himself. His cheek pillows on his knees and he continues to cry very, very quietly.

It’s funny, he thinks. When Crowley gets stressed, or nervous, or panicked he practically vibrates out of his seat with the need to _do something,_ something to make the adrenaline stop pumping, his pulse stop jumping, anything to make it stop and Aziraphale just wants everything to stop, or maybe to disappear just for a little while in complete and utter defeat.

“Angel?”

Speak of the devil. It’s strange though. Aziraphale was sure he didn’t hear him enter.

“Hello dear.” He responds, unmoving, slow tears wearing tracks into his trousers and Crowley blinks in confusion at the state of his angel, not quite sure what to do with himself.

“What… are you doing?” Crowley asks cautiously, brows furrowed. Aziraphale shrugs minutely.

“Okay…” Crowley tries again, starting to fidget. “What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing, I just…” Aziraphale sighs. “I miss them.” He whispers softly, gently raising his head enough that now he rests his chin on his knees instead, his dead-eyed look staring past Crowley and continuing into nothing.

Crowley goes still.

“Oh.” He says. He swallows thickly. He doesn’t need to ask who ‘they’ are. He shoves his hands in his pockets, feeling awkward and somewhat like perhaps he isn’t wanted here, why would he, perhaps he shouldn’t have presumed, and begins to fiddle with a loose thread in his left pocket.

“Why?” He asks skittishly, and something in Aziraphale cracks a little further.

“I don’t know. I don’t know and it _hurts_ and I don’t know why.” He sobs, burying his face back into his knees, his arms winding a little tighter around himself. _They hurt me, they hate me, and I miss them and I hate myself for it._

Crowley had long since started holding his breath, and he doesn’t yet feel the need to restart now. He slides somewhat haphazardly to his knees in front of Aziraphale, and reaches out for one of his hands, winding his fingers through the angel’s. His thumb absentmindedly begins to trace the angel’s knuckles, as he tries to come up with a single helpful thing to say.

Aziraphale, for his part, is startled at the thump of Crowley landing heavily on the wooden floor. Alertness gradually creeps back to him as he takes in the demon, his glasses pushed back into his hair, which is frantically messy in a way that’s decidedly accidental rather than styled. Aziraphale blinks and begins to uncurl his legs and return his feet to the floor, something about Crowley’s presence putting him slightly more at ease, as always, because Crowley always arrives when he needs him. Aziraphale’s arms remain wound tightly round his middle though but he absentmindedly continues to hold onto Crowley’s hand like a lifeline.

Aziraphale idly recalls that he had been right about Crowley’s reaction to being nervous though; the demon was more than a little jittery at the moment. It just happened to have taken Aziraphale what would otherwise be an embarrassing amount of time to process the emotional fog in his brain enough to realise.

“Forgive me, my dear.” Murmurs Aziraphale, staring at his lap. “I’m making you uncomfortable.”

Crowley huffs awkwardly. “No.” and at Aziraphale’s flat look he shrugs gracelessly “’S alright angel.”

They stay like that for several long, slow moments, not speaking, tears still making their slow and steady descent down Aziraphale’s face, and Crowley starts to breathe again, allowing Aziraphale to match his pace. Crowley’s thumb continues to trace over Aziraphale’s knuckles; his other hand braced on the chair beside the angel’s thigh. Gently, he raises his free hand and tugs his sleeve down to wipe away the tears that trail down the angel’s face, furiously trying to come up with a plan. Objectively speaking, he _could_ fit himself on the chair with Aziraphale, his brain very unhelpfully, and slightly passive-aggressively, suggests. But then he’d be in the angel’s lap. And he didn’t think either of them would be able to handle that, touch starved as they both were. He’d probably start crying too, and that, he decided, would push his limits _way_ too far into undemonic territory. He might not serve Hell anymore, but he was _trying_ to have standards.

He tugged his gaze away from Aziraphale for a second and spared a glance around the rest of the bookshop. Deciding that he, despite the probably unsteady feet on the angel’s part, could get himself and Aziraphale to the couch was achievable, Crowley pulled himself and Aziraphale to their respective feet.

Landing ungracefully on the couch, Aziraphale let out a quiet hiccupping sob, automatically resting his head on Crowley’s shoulder, arms still wrapped tightly around himself, as if that was the only thing holding him together. As if otherwise he might fly apart and disappear, and wouldn’t that be nice? As Crowley loops one arm around the angel’s shoulders, he realises Aziraphale is shaking ever so slightly.

“It’s okay y’know.” Crowley starts gently, chewing his lip nervously, watching his friend. “to miss them, that is.”

Aziraphale starts crying incrementally harder than before, breaths coming out in gasping sobs. “ _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I’m- “_

“ _Hey,”_ Crowley says firmly. “Didn’t I just say it’s okay?”

“ _I know, I know, I just…”_ Aziraphale weeps, marginally furious with himself, and buries his face in the crook of Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley begins tracing patterns along Aziraphale’s spine, and his voice goes soft again. “I’m right here okay? You just let it all out. You’ll feel better after. Trust me.”

Because here’s the thing:

There’s only so much escapism in driving fast and driving dangerous, your car insisting on blasting music by a band you had long since, not just gotten over, but really started to hate, before something starts to give.

There is only so much protection in armour built of sarcasm and leather and tinted lenses before something starts to crack.

“ _Angel._ ” He says, when Aziraphale cries himself out, because he _gets it,_ but what he means is _I’m sorry,_ and _I hate them,_ and _I love you I love you I love you_ although Crowley reckons Aziraphale misses his last meaning with well-practised ease (but he’s wrong, so very very wrong, and Aziraphale can’t help but relax into him at that tone, because he knows that tone, he knows it so well, and he _adores_ it). Crowley rests his cheek on soft white curls as he continues to rub the angel’s back, and Aziraphale very slowly draws his knees up against Crowley’s chest, his shoulder buried somewhere in Crowley’s armpit, heels resting on the edge of Crowley’s thigh. He _finally_ loosens his arms from around himself, and carefully, almost _shyly,_ encircles Crowley with them. Seconds and eons pass before Aziraphale sniffs and tilts his head slightly, offering the demon a watery smile.

“Well. Hello there.”

Crowley gulps, unable to break the accidental eye contact they’ve made, and briefly wishes he hadn’t pushed his glasses off his face before. He isn’t quite sure how he managed to _almost_ get the angel in his lap. He’s pretty sure he recalls planning on avoiding _exactly this_ and for the life of him, can’t remember why until he can and his pulse starts to flutter.

“…Hello,” he says back, his own shy smile creeping onto his face, which he vehemently tries to hide by chewing his lip, furiously fighting back a blush. “Feel better?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Crowley grins. “Told ya.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and gives Crowley’s middle a slight squeeze, partially in thanks, partially in reply, and another part specifically so he can shoot Crowley an exceptionally smug look, especially for someone who’d just stopped crying, when he hears the demon’s pulse jump. He was not, however, counting on the startled squeak Crowley makes, releasing his own startled giggle.

“Bastard,” Crowley mutters, shooting the angel what is meant to be a particularly pointed glare, but ends up coming out as more of a pout. “Never helping you again.” He sulks. Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at that and collapses into a hysterical giggle fit at the demon’s continuing disgruntled look.

As Aziraphale finally calms down he releases a full-body sigh and goes slack against Crowley’s chest.

“How come you came by the shop today? Did you need something?”

“You weren’t answering your phone. Thought- Thought maybe something might have happened to you.” Crowley answers, ducking his head slightly to avoid meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. He chances a peek out of the corner of his eye and continues “Guess I was sort of right, huh?”

“I suppose you were.” Aziraphale replies, making eye contact with Crowley’s chest, absentmindedly tracing over it with an idle finger, before looking up “Honestly though. Thank you, Crowley.”

Crowley cracks a smile. “Any time angel.”

They sit in silence for barely a minute before Crowley breaks it again.

“Hey, angel?”

Aziraphale hums in acknowledgement, suddenly tired.

“You missing them… that doesn’t mean you want to go back. Right?” Crowley worries his lip between his teeth, desperately looking anywhere except Aziraphale.

“Of course not. It’s just. A lot to process. I hadn’t really let myself think about it, and then it just sort of. Happened.” He grips Crowley’s chin in order to force eye contact. “I’m not going to leave you, Crowley.”

“Right. Obviously.”

“Obviously.” Aziraphale hums happily and lets go of Crowley’s face, his eyes fluttering shut with the type of exhaustion that only comes after a good cry. He cracks one open again to look at Crowley.

“Don’t suppose you have anywhere to be for the next few hours?”

“Ah, well you know me” answers Crowley dryly, attempting to make up for last minute’s vulnerability, “things to do, places to be. I never stop.”

“Oh… well then, I’ll just ah… don’t let me keep you then” Aziraphale begins to extract himself before Crowley hurriedly cuts him off.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” He grips Aziraphale a little tighter to stop him from leaving. Crowley glares at the angel as if to dare him to ask him to let go. Aziraphale stays quiet and Crowley lets out a sigh of relief, loosening his grip slightly. “You _know_ I don’t have anywhere to be except where ever you are right?” he coughs awkwardly, realising how ridiculously _sappy_ that sounds. “Y’know. Especially with the whole, ah, unemployment thing, right?”

“Well then. Good. Because I wasn’t really planning on moving for a good while.”

Aziraphale allows his eyes to drift shut again, and is just starting to drift off properly when Crowley catches on.

“Wha- angel you don’t want to fall asleep on the couch. You’ll get an awful crick in your neck.”

“Worth it.” Mumbles Aziraphale, still clinging to Crowley as he falls asleep for real, evidently leaving the demon pinned to the couch for an indeterminant amount of time. That is, until Crowley figures out how to scoop up Aziraphale, from where he is already very conveniently draped bridal style across Crowley’s lap, and carry him up to the bed, shaking his head in exasperation.

“Ridiculous” He mutters fondly, as he tucks himself up behind Aziraphale under the covers and falls asleep against him.

**Author's Note:**

> honestly, I just wanted to write cuddles
> 
> comments and kudos make the world go round :)


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